Damn my summer posting sucks ass.

All year long, I post my little fingers off, only to fuck it up by consistently NOT posting, over the summer. Oh believe me, I think CONSTANTLY in posts. What great writing it'll read as! I think, excitedly. And then? I just crack open a beer instead of sitting my ass down and getting somewhere. Well, yeah. I never promised you a rose garden.

We went to see Dave Matthews on the 27th. At Darien Lake. And I love this great state, but please take my word for it and NEVER. GO. TO. A. CONCERT. THERE. I wasn't even miffed about having to park all the way in Pennsylvania (Hey! I'm in New York! HA!). Nor was a I miffed that by show time we had approximately 3 drunk people puke at our feet, literally. Thank MOMMA for the plastic tarps. Cover that shit up, and HEY! It's our own concert slipn'slide. Did I get miffed (I like that word) when there were SOOOO MANNNNY people smoking pot within a 180' radius of us that CD had to sit down because he was stoned (at 11? Hello Oprah?) NO. Perhaps what bothered me the most was that we sat in the parking lot for two hours after the show was over, after having left early, and DID NOT MOVE. Some young Willie Aames (I think it looks better with the double letter beginning) was hanging out of the van blocking traffic, trying to pick girls up. Pretty standard. Some young "Rich Girls" look alike twins were sitting on top of their cars asking if people wanted to "deep throat great hot dogs" for two dollars. Some young, horny, couple was making out in the front of the car. And me? I just sat there, foot impatiently poised on the gas, then the clutch, then the brake. I think I had ankular carpal tunnel by the time we got home. Dave, I adore you. Western New York...um, don't call me, I'll call you.

I had a blogging thought, there. I thought I saw a familiar face in the crowd, and my heart stopped. He looked like Paul. A kid I was engaged to when I was 21, who was killed in a motorcycle accident. Whenever you frequent a haunt where you have spent copious amounts of time with another person, a familiar face will freeze you momentarily. I knew it wasn't him, but I thought it would be great if it was. Just so he would be alive.

I also noticed something else. I'm an idiot (aren't you glad I'm just catching on now?). Today, as I was getting in the GEO (so old! yet still running!), the door closed on my ankle and I yelled "OW!" as if it were the only word left in the universe. Then we went out to the old house. Y'all remember the shire, right? Well, the yard was full of huge ass branches, and we had to help Momma clear it. It was no easy task. Not unpleasant, just heavy on the manual labor. I can't tell you how many times I scratched, scrapped, poked, prodded, or removed skin from myself, but you know what? I just thought, "I'm tough." Just call me SHE RA. Can't take scratches from the GEO, but if it's manual labor, LOOK! AT! ME! GO! I can be a country girl, too. Sometimes I'm silly.

You know what? I just lied. O.E.O. (bow - AND who will also be known from this point forward as THE INCREDIBLE SULK - oh! Listen! 'Cuz you have to hear it with the ECHO, eCHO, ecHO, echO, echo....) just asked me where the cell phone is. Well, if he could use mine. I said I didn't know. I know where it is. I'm just sick of him talking to his mom. He's always sullen and pissy after he talks to her, and I'm SOOOO over it. Where's the damn calgon? And is that shit edible?

Bad STEPMOM, BAD!

I could write a book: DON'T DO THIS TO YOUR KIDS.